


Might Be Stronger

by StarlightAndFireflies



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, Post-Reichenbach, Sherlock is a Mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-23
Updated: 2015-09-23
Packaged: 2018-04-20 11:20:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4785470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarlightAndFireflies/pseuds/StarlightAndFireflies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John isn't the only one who has nightmares. When Sherlock returns, they bring him down, almost as far as he fell before. So the question is if he can find a way, after everything he has been through, to find hope again. Post-Reichenbach one shot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Might Be Stronger

**Author's Note:**

> As I'm sure you're aware, I don't own Sherlock.

One month since Sherlock knocked on the door of 221B again at last, and since John had answered the door.  
  
Four weeks since the shouting, the angry tears, the betrayal and pain written all over John's face.

Thirty days since the slammed doors, the grudging acceptance that Sherlock wasn't going to leave, that he was determined to stay and make John understand.

Seven hundred and twenty hours since Sherlock had retreated into his room after John had stormed away, since the last time he had exchanged more than ten words at a time with John.

One month had passed, and the two of them had yet to make up. Sherlock had been revealed to the world, his name had been cleared, and Lestrade, Molly, and Mrs. Hudson had thrown a celebration for his sort-of resurrection. But John had refused to come, and admit it or not, that was a blow to Sherlock.

After a week, Sherlock was seriously debating moving out and letting John move on with his life. But he couldn't bring himself to do so, too stubborn, still wanting to make things right between them.

And then, seventeen days after his return, the nightmares had begun.

They started simple, just reliving the fall, or Moriarty's suicide, and just resulted in Sherlock waking up slightly out of breath. He usually could fall asleep fairly quickly after those.

But soon, they progressed into something else, something far more vicious, something that led to him lying awake for hours after, thinking. He tried to avoid sleeping for dangerous lengths of time, but it didn't matter; the nightmares came every time he slept anyway.

Sometimes, Sherlock would dream of standing watching the fall from street level, forced to see John's distraught face up close, unable to do anything but reach out his hand helplessly and observe. Then John would collapse, tears running down his face, and Sherlock would call his name. John would seem to hear and raise his head then, a furious, burning look of hatred on his face. His mouth would form words, asking Sherlock how he could do this to him, and a gun appeared in his hand, and the bang resounded in Sherlock's ears as he fell to John's final revenge...

Or he would dream of standing in the trees, a safe distance away from his own grave, watching John fall apart. He would sigh and begin to turn away as John began to leave, only to come face to face with Moriarty. Blood was running down the psychopath's face from his self-inflicted gunshot, enhancing the evil of his leering grin. The criminal would just stand there, smiling, as Sherlock would try futilely to pass him. He would turn to check on John and find him already dead, Sebastian Moran standing over him, wearing that same grin. And Sherlock would scream...

Or he would dream of Mrs. Hudson, yelling at him after his return, telling him she never wanted to see him again after what he had put them all through. And so he would leave that place, leave her there broken and weeping, trying to stop the emotions, to forget the love he could not deny he felt for her...

Or he would dream of Lestrade, desperate yet determined, chasing down some criminal he didn't have the faintest clue how to stop. He would curse, wishing Sherlock was there to help, wishing that mad young man he had found once on a street corner would once again saunter onto the scene. He would raise his gun on the faceless criminal in front of him, take a deep breath, and Sherlock would turn away, wincing, not wanting to see the loss of one of his first friends...

Or he even sometimes dreamed of Mycroft or Molly, stuck in a situation not of their doing, but directly of Sherlock's, something involving the fall. Molly, cornered in the morgue, killed for not knowing where Sherlock was now, or refusing to disclose the location of the falsified records she had made. Mycroft, kidnapped and then murdered for not giving up any of the massive amount of information he knew, on Sherlock or otherwise, killed while hoping his brother would do the legwork and save him before it was too late...

The nightmares got to the point where Sherlock would wake up, crying out and panting and covered in sweat, terrified he had caused the deaths or destructions of everyone he loved. He had once thought he could bear hurting them, but now he knew better.

He would tell himself when he woke that he was safe, that none of those people actually hated him, or were dead, or killed him. They were all safe, and they were all glad he was as well.

Well, except perhaps John.

Nearly two weeks since the nightmares had begun, and now they had escalated to a point that Sherlock was beginning to think he couldn't hide them from even John anymore.

How long could this go on?

 

* * *

 

One month and two days since Sherlock had returned to Baker Street, he woke up from yet another horrific nightmare, gasping for breath, eyes darting around the dark room, sweat running down his face.

John had thrown himself off of the rooftop of Bart's instead of Sherlock, who had been forced to watch it, screaming John's name, terror in his heart.

He took deep breaths, trying to get his heart rate back to normal, praying John hadn't heard this latest nightmare. John's silent treatment was bad enough; Sherlock didn't want to annoy him or have him pity Sherlock.

He lay back down on the bed, just wanting this all to stop. Why wouldn't the nightmares stop?

 

* * *

 

"Sherlock, love, is something wrong? You look awful!"

Sherlock looked up from his laptop, perched on his lap as he lounged in bed. Mrs. Hudson stood in the doorway, concerned, bearing a cup of coffee and a biscuit.

He nodded. "I'm alright."

She sighed, obviously knowing he wasn't but not wanting to press the issue. She set the mug and biscuit on his bedside table, taking a moment to kiss the top of his head fondly before she left. Sherlock watched her go, wondering if he should tell her what was going on. Ultimately he decided against it, knowing it would only make her fuss and worry and that it wouldn't stop the nightmares anyway.

He drank the coffee and even ate the biscuit, then closed his laptop and stood. His coat and scarf were slung over a chair, so he grabbed them and left the room, needing to be anywhere but here, the place his nightmares happened.

John was in the sitting room, in his usual chair, watching telly. He glanced up as Sherlock entered the room, but the latter avoided eye contact, not wanting to see the hurt, anger, and betrayal in his old friend's countenance. He fled down the stairs and out the door before John could even open his mouth to try to speak.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock wandered aimlessly through London, not caring where he went, trying to work through these emotions about the nightmares before he went back to 221B. Even if he rarely saw John face to face any more, he still didn't want to be upset around him. He wanted to show John that if he could move on, so could Sherlock.

His phone vibrated in his pocket, and he pulled it out, assuming it was Lestrade, asking if he wanted a case yet. He had turned down all the others he'd been offered, claiming they were too mundane but really just not wanting to go without John.

It was a text, but it wasn't from Lestrade, or even Mycroft.

_I know about the nightmares. Why didn't you tell me? JW_

Sherlock paused, his brisk walk slowing as the surprising words sunk in. He typed out a reply, almost without thinking about it.

_I was under the impression you didn't want to talk with me, live with me, or associate with me, let alone hear about my problems. SH_

He wondered if he should have replied at all; maybe John was just being polite?

_Come home. JW_

Sherlock frowned. Firstly, why would John want him home when they hadn't spoken for a month? And secondly, could Sherlock really still call 221B home after all this time?

_Please? JW_

Sherlock hesitated, but curiosity quickly overrode his reluctance, and he turned and headed back into the opposite direction.

_Coming. SH_

 

* * *

 

"John?" Sherlock called uncertainly, pausing on the landing. He had no idea what to expect, a feeling he was growing far too accustomed to lately.

John appeared in the doorway, his familiar figure virtually emanating concern. Sherlock just looked at him, mustering a smile. The doctor turned and headed into the flat, and Sherlock followed without thinking. They settled onto the sofa, side by side, not saying anything. Sherlock stole a glance at John every few seconds, but his ex-blogger just gazed into space, deep in thought.

"You don't have to be afraid anymore," he murmured suddenly, still not looking at Sherlock. "You don't have to be haunted by all this anymore."

It took Sherlock a moment to find his voice. "How?" he asked hoarsely.

"Don't cope on your own."

Sherlock looked at him, and John's gaze finally lifted to meet his. There, the consulting detective saw the mixed emotions, the tentative desire to forgive combined with the frustration that he was still even putting up with Sherlock's presence. The anger mixed with longing for renewed friendship.

And though Sherlock pretended not to feel it, that look gave him a faint sense of hope.

He nodded, and John nodded back, the matter at rest for now, just like everything else. Sherlock watched as the doctor stood, making his way into his bedroom. He let him go, brain calculating and considering.

It wasn't a conclusion to anything really, and the nightmares would likely still stick around for a long time, but Sherlock knew he and John had reached an understanding of sorts today. There was hope still. Things might still be alright. John's look told him so.

His mouth spread into a small smile. _Let the nightmares come_ , he thought. _We just might be stronger than this_.

  
FIN.

**Author's Note:**

> Leave a comment and let me know what you thought :) ~ SAF


End file.
